The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called "standing people. . . ."
The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.
Thought tends to collect in pools.
Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?